


Night

by cissamione



Category: Upstairs Downstairs, Upstairs Downstairs (2011)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 01:03:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissamione/pseuds/cissamione
Summary: Agnes is thinking as she lays in bed at the Kents'.





	Night

**Author's Note:**

> So this takes place in episode 5, while Agnes is staying at the Kents'.
> 
> I would like to say that i am an avid Blanche/Agnes shipper, but this just happened... I don't actually ship Agnes and Hallam because he was so awful to her

The room was big and silent, the quiet country outside the window reminded Agnes of her childhood in Wales. She missed the constant bustle of London, where something was always happening on the other side of the front door, but behind it , Agnes ruled over her orderly domestic kingdom. There, at 165 Eaton Place, she knew the servants, she knew the family, her family, and she knew the comings and goings of the house. 

Pritchard, and his organised mind keeping her home in shipshape fashion. Mrs Thackery and her cooking, the way she haggled over a dinner menu so she could cook something the had seen in a magazine. Beryl’s way of playing with the children that Nanny never would. Mr Amanjit’s usually unflappable and calming temperament. Even Persie. After years without her, and now these months together again, Agnes missed Persie’s youthfulness, her spirit. But almost most of all, Agnes missed Blanche. The archaeologists chatter could distract Agnes from anything, and that was what she needed right now. Her soothing nature was, nowadays, often the only thing that could calm Agnes down and help her see reason.

And then there was Hallam. In the days, Agnes was filled with righteous anger towards him, and herself. She was certain he was having an affair, but she hadn’t been much better herself, the way she had carried on with Casper. She felt that they had both stopped tending to their marriage, and like an unwatered plant, it was withering, dying, and she didn’t know how to bring it back to life. Sometimes, Agnes thought back to when they had first been married, and their time in America. There had been so much passion, care, so much love, and the London smog had smothered it, leaving it to limp towards its end, which, to Agnes, seemed an inevitable eventuality.

But in the night, when she was alone in the cold bed that smelled of roses and not Hallam’s cologne, that was when she missed him. It wasn’t that she missed him as he was, but she missed what they had been, together. Agnes wanted to go back to that, back to before they had lost their connection to each other, when they could read each other like open books, and they fit together like a jigsaw.

Agnes shifted in the bed, and her foot hit a cold patch on the left side, and she recoiled. She drew her knees up, her body wrapping around itself like a baby as she felt a tear slip from her eye and onto the silk pillowcase. A solitary owl hooted in the dark as Agnes began to weep for all the had lost, for all she had let slip from her grasp like ghosts in the night, gone before she realised it was going.


End file.
